A Brief, Beautiful Escape
by fmapreshwab
Summary: After the work, when the puzzle is solved, the case settled, the client satisfied, there is only the voice. The voice and the need. Holmes takes a trip to a drug den. Rated for slight language. One shot for now, might go further later. Holmes POV.


A/N: Coming off a dry spell. Let me know what you think. It's a one-off for now, until it becomes more. I don't own the characters. Holmes POV.

I stumble drunkenly down small cart-tracked lane between the miliner's shop and the pawn broker. I was, only hours ago, standing upon this barrel and breaking that window, breaking into the hat-maker's, as I later explained at length to Lestrade, following up on the lead that had settled the case.

Settled. It always seems so final, and it always is, until it isn't. There is never any telling, however, how long the interim could stretch, and, of a great and wide sample, no one has ever cursed my patience.

The string around my heart tightens, and I find myself stumbling nearly off my feet in my hurry to respond. So strange, it seems, that when I found myself here with Watson and the boys this morning, the place meant nothing to me, but alone, without the puzzle, the distraction, with nothing to quiet the voice, the damnable voice, and nothing to busy my mind, the string had drawn taught, and my proximity was my sole thought.

I smile despite myself at the idea of ever having a sole thought. I can see, perhaps, the draw John sees to his poetic exagerations. In truth, I had at least two dozen independent thought paths at the time, but they did have their theme. Foot traffic along pedestrian routes weighed against the cost and exposure of a cab. Escape route success probabilities from the flat. Budgetary allotment considerations.

I smile all the more as I turn the corner, feeling the small pouch inside the threadbare surcoat I've chosen for the outing, the weight of the coins that will provide my beautiful relief bouncing off my hip.

Though objectively the building is drab, unimpressive, more than a little run-down, the very picture of ordinary in this district of the city, to me it has a certain ruddy glow, its light shining through the fog to warm my heart and fill my soul with its ghostly siren song. I trip absently over the limp I've given myself, playing to a deliberately-crossed 't' the part of the lowly street urchin.

I scrape the back of my hand lightly across the brick work of the shopfront which faces the street, and I would swear that I could feel the warmth from the lamps within emanating through the brick. For that to be possible, of course, there would have to be something on the order of a few hundred more lamps than the comparatively meager 43 lamps within.

I am suddenly very aware of the chill in the air, as it creeps through my meager, molding apparel and steals into my very bones. I lean against the wall of the shop to breathe for a moment and push back the sickness I feel boiling up.

The voice is in my ear, whispering John's disapointment and judgement, the look on the good doctor's face on the odd occasion that he should have to stumble upon me in such a condition, my own niggling doubts and fears. The whispers are an inescapable pounding, and I know what I must do.

I step across the threshold of the rough, sturdy building, and I am transported. A thousand, thousand leagues from heart and home, surrounded by familiar stains of human filth, and my spirit is lifted, incredible as that may seem. The voice, my eternal tormentor and companion, he who I can only ever silence with the work, he tells me that the drug isn't the strongest pull of this place.

_Opium isn't your drug_, he tells me, _it's superiority. Look around you, my good man, and see the scum with whom you must treat in order to get your fix._

I imagine the voice is John, or at least the man John will be when the shades of adoration fall from his eyes. I feel a certain sting when the doctor catches my eye, as his are always full of such...respect. It sickens me to live the lie he tells himself everyday, that I'm a good and proper man at the heart of it all, that I just have my eccentricities. My eccentricities.

The proprietor of the establishment to which I have returned, an older Oriental chap by the name of Ling who I'm reasonably sure has spent some time in prison for expressing pro-British sentiment at the wrong time in his homeland, now finds himself in a state of implicit exile, with a price on his head which even his friends and family might be persuaded to attempt to collect.

Ling speaks rarely, as he is self-conscious of a speech defect which, in reality, is only barely noticeable, even to my own trained ear. I suspect he was shamed into silence as a child, his parents resenting him for not being the son they had wanted, for having so clear and ever-present a defect as to call attention, for having the audacity of individualism.

_Now, wouldn't you say you're projecting just a little? _the voice asks with a smugness I can admire. I almost allow myself another smile, confident as I am in my security within these walls, but I fall to the side of caution once again.

Instead, I roughly approach the owner, snapping the thin cord binding the coin sack to the lining of my coat, haggle briefly with a stony-faced Ling, and retire to a sequestered room in the back of the establishment, reserved for the rare occasion upon which a customer expresses a desire for a private experience.

To most, I know, the public display of such weakness makes little difference, surrounded as they are by their own kind, but I must admit to at least a grain of truth in the accusation the voice has leveled. It is not merely the drug for which I patronize this particular establishment.

After hearing the extremely satisfying sound of the bolt in the lock, I stand in the center of the small, dark, musty room, and take it in. I experience the room as a wave, the dissimilar, misshapen walls, the poorly patched holes in the northeast and southeast walls, the mold thriving in the darker corners, the small wooden beams crossing the ceiling, the small lamp hanging from the post in the center of it all.

I remove my burdens one at a time, like heavy mantles I can carry no further. The expectations; the obligations; John's bloody hero worship; the shadowy ax of disappointment always hanging over us both, waiting to descend and cut the tie I've allowed myself to develop between us; the ever-present, whispering, pounding, sweet, horrible voice. I know the escape that awaits me, and I cast each layer aside as a bridegroom on his wedding night.

I settle into the pile of cushions arranged in one corner of the room and prepare myself to swim through the night like a whale, plunging through the deeps and breaching only so often to breath in a cold, sour, necessary lungful of awareness.

I shut my eyes, and in this close, personal darkness, as I drift into the sweet, dimming fog rolling in over the tumultuous ocean of thoughts and ideas and memories and facts I've been lost on for these many years, I know what I am, and I make myself sick. But the fog takes that away as well, and this is the moment for which I've longed on so many fevered nights.

In this moment, I am not Sherlock Holmes. I am free.


End file.
